Standing the Final Watch

by William Alan Webb

  Angriff flushed. “You can leave any time now,” he said before disappearing down the hallway.

  “What I’m seeing scares me, Nick,” Fleming called after him. In a lower voice, he added, “Good God. I should have gotten here sooner.”

  Dishes tottered in the sink and clothes lay heaped on chairs, tables, and in the laundry room. Liquor and wine bottles sat on every flat surface and the house reeked of rotten food and unwashed human. But the tools of battle — the rifles, shotguns, and handguns on the den table — gleamed from recent cleaning, with boxes of ammo stacked and organized on the floor. Fleming felt some hope seeing that.

  But Angriff’s appearance shocked him the most. Unlike his role model, Patton, Angriff never worried overmuch about his uniform. He described himself as a rifleman with stars on his collar, a soldier like any other. His personal hygiene, on the other hand, bordered on obsession, and so it worried Fleming to see his friends’ dirty and unkempt hair and beard.

  Without asking, Fleming found some coffee, cleared space on the kitchen counter, and brewed a pot. He scrubbed two mugs, poured the fresh coffee, and went looking for Angriff. He found him reclining in his office, in the leather chair he’d inherited from his father and with a half-smoked cigar in his jaw.

  “You’re still here?” Angriff said. “I thought you might take the hint.”

  Fleming set the steaming mug in a bare space on the desk, between two open laptops. A third laptop was on the table to the left of the desk, and two large monitors were on each corner. Stacks of paper spilled over the sides and onto the floor. A couch and end table backed up to the far wall. Fleming sat there, after first pulling up the blinds on the large picture window. Dust particles floated in the light that flooded the room. Angriff put on a pair of sunglasses.

  “If you really want me to leave, I’ll leave, but don’t give me this I’m fine crap.” Fleming’s resonant voice echoed like the voice of God in the paneled room. “You don’t look fine, and you sure as hell don’t smell fine. I came all the way from Africa because you haven’t returned my calls, but if you want me out of here, then say the word and I’m gone.”

  Angriff lit the cigar stump and stared back. “You know I don’t want you to go,” he finally said. “Hell, Norm, you’re all I’ve got left. I don’t even have a dog any more. Thank you for coming.”

  “I’ve been worried sick about you, Nick. A lot of us have. So talk to me.”

  Angriff sipped the coffee, took the sunglasses off again, and then rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

  “No,” he said. “I’m not okay. I don’t even know where to start. I can’t sleep. I’m not hungry. All I do is think about Janine and Cynthia on that damned boat, dying because I wasn’t there to protect them. I should have been, but I wasn’t.”

  “You know better than that. You were in Africa doing your duty. It’s not your fault that somebody here at home didn’t do theirs.”

  “Sure,” Angriff said. “Objectively, I know you’re right, but when the nightmares come that doesn’t help. I keep running this movie in my head over and over again, ways I could have saved them, things I could have done… I’m telling you, if I don’t get this figured out, they’ll be cleaning my brains off the wall.”

  “It can’t help that they haven’t found the bastards yet.”

  “That FBI prick, Bettison, won’t even return my calls. Now his voice mail’s full. Incompetent son of bitch… it’s like he doesn’t want to solve it.”

  “From the look of things, you’ve been hunting them, too.”

  “Night and day. If the Alphabetics can’t solve it, I sure as hell will. When I’m not thinking about the boat, I’m thinking about how to find these bastards. I’ve got to kill them, Norm; I’ve got to kill them all.”

  “Any leads?”

  “No,” Angriff said. “Nothing. I don’t get it. It’s like they sank into the ground.”

  “But you’re not in the loop, right?”

  “No, I’m on official leave. Nobody’s saying it to my face, but I’m persona non grata. A lot of people getting payback, I guess. They must think I’ll go off half cocked and screw up the investigation. Everything I get is back channel, at least second hand, and usually stale, but I do know they haven’t got any good idea who did it. They covered their tracks like pros.”

  “What about the group that claimed credit?”

  “Just bullshit. Nobody’s ever heard of them, before or after. No chatter, no affiliations, nothing. Nobody has any good idea who they are, why they did it, or if they even exist. They’re not even a hundred percent sure they were Muslims. I’m sure, but the Alphabetics aren’t. If they were a sleeper cell, they were colder than cold.”

  “I saw the guns and thought maybe you’d gotten a lead,” Fleming said.

  “Busy work.” Angriff shrugged. “Cleaning them, checking the ammo to make sure it’s still good. It was something to do with my hands that I didn’t have to think about. I can still field strip an M1 blindfolded in the dark.”

  “You and your Garands.” Fleming smiled. “You’ve always had a thing for big guns.”

  “Are we having the Desert Eagle discussion again?” Angriff said.

  “We can if it distracts you.”

  “Well, I’m not giving them up, and I’m not gonna stop loading my own ammo, either.”

  “Have you stopped overloading the rounds?” Fleming said.

  “I never overloaded them. I pressure test my ammo and I’ve never had a problem.”

  “Look, I’m sorry, Nick. I really am. I wish I could do something to help you track these guys down, but I don’t have your juice with anybody in Homeland, and things in Africa have been pretty hot. Obviously, if you get a line on them and need backup, I’m your man.”

  Angriff smiled a little and drank more coffee. “You have your job and I have mine. Besides, where I’m going you can’t follow.”

  Fleming snorted. “You act like you can stop me… but is that the best idea?”

  “To kill the bastards? Are you really asking me that?”

  “I—” Fleming stopped. “What if that was their intent all along? To hurt you, get you off the front lines. Nobody is better at beating these guys than you are, and they know it.”

  Angriff leaned forward, resting arms on his knees. “I don’t give a damn why they did it.” He gestured with the cigar for emphasis. “If they were trying to get my attention, then it worked. They took everything from me. Everything. There’s nothing left for me except making sure they never do this to anyone else, ever again.”

  “Every time there’s a terror attack, it leaves behind people like you. Some can’t get over it. Some can. You have to. Your country needs you. We’re at war, and you’re the best general we’ve got.”

  “Good luck finding somebody who agrees with you. Those ass-kissing idiots in the Pentagon were glad to see me go.”

  “See you go?” Fleming said. “What do you mean? What did you do?”

  “Turned in my papers. January fifth, I’m a civilian.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Maybe not, but I am.”

  “This isn’t the Nick Angriff I’ve known for thirty years. I think those terrorists killed you, too.”

  “Hey,” Angriff said, rising from his chair and pointing. “You’re my best friend, but you can’t talk to me like that, and especially not in my home. My family is dead. Everywhere I turn I see their faces, in my mirror, in my pillow, hell, even when I’ve got my eyes closed, all I can see is Janine and Cynthia screaming my name as the bullets tear them apart and the thermite grenades burn that boat to cinders. Do you know the only shred of hope I’ve got left? Thinking they were already dead before the fires started. It’s driving me nuts and I can’t make it stop. I don’t care if they kill me as long as I get to kill them, too. And I can’t do it as long as I’m in the Army. There’s no way they would let me.”

  “Who are they?”

  “You know damned good and well wh
o I’m talking about… Tom Steeple and his crew of barking sheep in Washington. They’re terrified I might personally kill a terrorist. God forbid I do that. If you can’t do it with a drone, it’s a no-go. Too messy for the new Army. It might look bad on TV.”

  “That’s not fair,” Fleming said. “And you know it. Drones save lives.”

  “Yeah, I know, but you get my point.”

  Quiet settled over them as the outburst faded.

  Angriff slumped backwards, exhausted. “There’s one more thing. I think sometimes this bothers me more than anything else. Something’s not right, somewhere. I don’t even know what I’m trying to say, but something doesn’t add up.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  “That’s just it — I don’t know. My mind keeps telling me I’m missing something, that something is wrong, but I can’t think what it is. It’s constantly there, this voice that keeps whispering words I can’t quite hear. I think I’m going crazy, Norm.”

  “Is it about the terrorists? The FBI, the style of the attack — can you pinpoint anything?”

  “No, nothing. I’ve stared at the ceiling for hours trying, but I just draw a blank.”

  Fleming paused. “If you’re really going to resign from the Army and go after these guys, then will you listen to a suggestion?”

  Angriff shrugged.

  “You constantly preach that in combat, emotions are your worst enemy,” Fleming said. “That they cloud your thinking and cause mistakes. Didn’t you tell me that Patton was at his best when surrounded with the beauty and harmony of his surroundings? That discord of the mind caused more mistakes in battle than anything else? Have I remembered that correctly?”

  “Yeah,” Angriff said. “Patton thought best when there was order around him. What are you getting at?”

  “I’m saying get out of this house, go somewhere where you can think. There’s nothing here but ghosts, Nick. If you really want to find these guys, then take your own advice, go put your mind in order first, then you can start outthinking them.”

  “Go where? There’s nothing for me anywhere else.”

  “I don’t know… what about Austria? You always loved it before.”

  “Austria? Janine loved it, that’s true, and I liked it well enough.”

  “Perfect. Christmas in Salzburg. Why not? Sitting around here hasn’t gotten you any closer to finding them, so go try something new. Refresh your mind; quit dwelling on it. Maybe then you’ll figure out what detail you’ve missed.”

  “Austria…” Angriff said. “Snow and Mozart balls. That’s actually not a bad idea. I’ll think about it. And I’m sorry about how I treated you earlier, Are you hungry? You want some breakfast?”

  “Sure, but not here. This place needs a hazmat team. Clean up and let’s go get some pancakes. I’m buying.”

  “I guess I could use a shower.”

  “I guess you could. Use a lot of soap. And shave, too, while you’re at it.”

  Chapter 4

  Target me at your own peril.

  Nick Angriff, responding to reports he was on a terrorist hit list

  December 2nd, 1037 hours

  Hot water and close shaving proved powerful anti-depressants. Angriff stayed under the spray longer than intended and emerged energized and hungry. By rummaging in a seldom opened drawer, he found a clean change of clothes. Jeans, a flannel shirt, and a stout pair of boots were topped by a black baseball cap with the Army logo.

  “You almost remind me of a human being,” Fleming said when Angriff returned to the den. “Instead of a feral pig.”

  Fleming sat at the table stacked with guns. He cradled an M1 Garand and looked down the sight. The Garand had a twin, next to two Colt M4s and couple of shotguns. On the floor sat the crates of ammo and cleaning supplies.

  “I even brushed my tusks… let’s go eat,” Angriff said.

  “You’re buying.”

  “Then you’re driving.”

  Fleming had parked his car near the front door. Angriff turned the dead bolt and moved aside to let his friend go first.

  His peripheral vision caught a flash in the distance. He reacted by pure reflex, pushed Fleming down, and dove on top of him as a bullet struck the door. The loud crack of a high-powered rifle echoed.

  Two more shots followed. One struck the door frame and the second shattered a lamp. Angriff kicked the door closed and three more shots punched holes in the wood.

  “Did you see him?” Fleming said.

  “Middle of the yard, big oak tree a hundred yards out. One shooter. Assume there’s an assault team flanking. Wait here.”

  Angriff belly-crawled toward the table with the guns while Fleming crouched against the outside wall and called 911 on his cell phone. Two more shots left neat holes in the window glass, although neither man offered a target. From the report, the sniper used something large caliber, like a hunting rifle.

  He reached up and grabbed an M4 from the table, shoved in a full magazine from the stacked ammo, and slid it to Fleming, then tossed two more magazines as reloads. While Fleming gave the 911 dispatcher the situation, Angriff slid an M1 off the table and carefully lowered the heavy gun to the ground, not wanting to jar the sights. A drop of sweat rolled into his left eye, but he blinked it away. Unloaded, the M1 weighed two pounds more than the M4. With the rifle in his hands, he pulled back the bolt and shoved in a clip holding eight thirty-caliber rounds.

  Angriff flashed thumbs-up and Fleming nodded. After scores of firefights over the years, their shared experience made speech unnecessary. Using hand signals, Angriff told Fleming to rise up, squeeze off enough rounds to draw counter-fire, and give him a chance to ID the shooter’s exact location. An experienced sniper would not be fooled by such a basic tactic, but Angriff doubted these guys were pros. Paid assassins did not miss clean shots like that first one, when the intended victim stood oblivious to danger and presented a perfect target.

  He counted with his fingers where Fleming could see… one… two… three, and then pointed. In the corner of a window Fleming rose to one knee, smashed the glass, spent one second finding the right tree and the dark shadow peering around the side. On full automatic he emptied the clip. The rounds tore into the wood with the desired effect; no sooner had Fleming dropped back out of sight than bullets shattered the window above him.

  Amateurs, Angriff thought. He rose and did not break the window. Instead, he sighted on his target through the glass. He knew the heavy thirty-caliber slug would be thrown off by the impact with the pane, but the second round would not. Even after he’d shot every weapon in the U.S. arsenal, including most of the artillery, Angriff still felt a kinship with the heavy, deadly Garand. When he squeezed off the first round, the recoil felt like the friendly prod of an old friend.

  Spent shell casings clattered on the floor as he emptied the clip at the dark figure huddled under the towering pin oak. From the left side of the house a second figure took off running for the street. Angriff thumbed in a reload in time to get off two rounds before the man disappeared behind the long hedge running the length of his home’s frontage. Fleming had re-loaded and both men tracked for more targets. Tires squealed on the road, speeding away.

  “You hit one of ’em, General,” Sheriff Stanton Laughlin said. “There’s blood under that oak. Looks like you got him pretty good. Should get some DNA, anyway.”

  Angriff leaned against a column on his front porch, smoking a cigar. Fleming spoke to two Sheriff’s Department detectives a few yards away.

  “I usually hit what I shoot at.”

  “One of ’em’s gonna need medical attention, that’s for damned sure. We’ve alerted every hospital, doctor’s office, and vet clinic from the Potomac to the Carolina border to be on the lookout. APBs up and down the state. They’re gonna get found, General.”

  “These guys were amateurs. If we assume they were actually trying to kill me, they did everything wrong. They couldn’t even flank a stationary target that didn’t know they were coming, s
o either they weren’t serious, or they were CVs.”

  “CVs?” Laughlin said.

  “Combat virgins.”

  “What do you mean, assuming they were actually trying to kill you?”

  “Nothing, really, except that level of incompetence makes you wonder. Stan, I have the utmost confidence in you.” Using his cigar, Angriff pointed down the driveway at several black SUVs approaching the house. “These guys, not so much.”

  “Shit,” Laughlin said. “The Alphabet Squad, right? I guess I should have known, you being a general and all. They probably smell a headline. Any idea which one?”

  “I don’t think Army CID would get here that quick, so it’s probably the FBI. If I’m right, don’t let those arrogant pricks push you around. As far as I’m concerned, you’re in charge of this investigation and they’re background noise.”

  “Tell them that.”

  “I’m going to.”

  The SUVs were mirror bright. For a moment he wondered what low-level agent got stuck with the job of waxing night-black vehicles to that level of polish. When the cars stopped, three squads of men and women in dark business suits dispersed in a disciplined tactical formation ringing the vehicles. Once they’d deployed, a final man emerged from the middle SUV. He took his time walking to the porch, like a monarch surveying a new acquisition.

  “Sheriff Stan Laughlin,” Angriff said when the man drew close, “meet Special Agent Terry Bettison.”

  The two men shook hands. Bettison turned and started to speak, but Angriff cut him off.

  “Since you haven’t returned my phone calls for more than a month,” he said, “I assume you’re here to fill me in on the latest progress in your investigation of my family’s murder. And I want you to know how much I appreciate the personal attention, Agent Bettison.”

  Flanked by two stone-faced women in navy business suits, Bettison smiled, although it looked more like a grimace. The lines in his face tightened around his eyes and Angriff could see the self-control it took for the FBI man not to snap at him. “I wish that were the case, General Angriff, but unfortunately there are no new leads in the tragic incident in Nevada. No, as soon as I heard about the attempt on your life I came down to assist in the investigation.”